


Double-Edged Words

by Ser_Thirst_A_Lot



Category: Naruto
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Clueless Tobirama, Denial of Feelings, Flaily Madara, Getting Together, Humor, Inappropriate Use of Chakra, M/M, MadaTobi Gift Exchange 2020, Mutual Pining, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Tobirama Rides Madara, idiots to lovers, the perfect tag for them, they both failed flirting 101 lol, with Izuna's help and after LOTS of flailing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:34:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot/pseuds/Ser_Thirst_A_Lot
Summary: Madara finally admits to himself that hemighthave a tiny, insignificant, definitely fleeting (if months-long already) crush on Tobirama.Tobirama’sgenius brain apparently lacks the capacity to realize his own very obvious crush on Madara until Izuna graciously points it out.Theybothneed a miracle to stop seeing their mutual shows of affection as patronizing and actually realize that their feelings aren’t as unrequited as they think.(Basically Flailing Idiots in Love featuring Frustrated Matchmaker Izuna with a brief cameo by Fluffy Cats)
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 44
Kudos: 540
Collections: MadaTobi Gift Exchange 2020





	Double-Edged Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nitohkousuke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nitohkousuke/gifts).



> this was a 5k-idea, max, then it turned into this MONSTER. Detailed account of my suffering can be found [here ](https://louiserandom.tumblr.com/post/610944138811146240/louiserandom-louiserandom-louiserandom). Someone hug me, these idiots are ruining my life *wallows in obsession*  
> okay end of rant x) 
> 
> ANYWAY, this was written for nitohkousuke for the MadaTobi Gift Exchange. Happy MadaTobi Month (though it's almost over aaaa, sorry!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The wait is _maddening_.

Madara would like to think of himself as a reasonably patient man, no matter what anyone else may think about him.

He’d been taught—trained—to be patient back during the war, waiting for an enemy to weaken their guard before he struck, determining the most opportune moment to ambush enemy clans. Namely the Senju with whom the Uchiha had now founded a village—an impossible dream of peace enduring for all of a year as of now. This also required careful planning, torturously slow perseverance in order to make a truly united community out of people essentially trained to kill each other. He would like to think he approached the task with all the focus and patience he could muster, providing his contribution to his and Hashirama’s dream—if only, and, perhaps, solely for Izuna, whom he had almost lost far too many times in the godsdamned war.

Despite his undoubtedly impressive experience in matters of patience, Madara simply couldn’t stand another moment of this torture.

Something had to be done.

Immediately.

“I’m tired of waiting,” Madara declares, lifting his gunbai and pointing it at Hashirama’s head. “If the—prick is this late, let’s begin without him.”

His breath stuttered for but a moment, just before his brain-to-mouth filter let out a treacherous _pretty one_ instead of his more usual insults towards Hashirama’s little brother.

Another irritating tendency, and Madara stubbornly blames his sleep-deprived brain for these far-too-frequent near slips. Sleep-deprived precisely because a certain white-haired Senju appeared far too often in his dreams as of late in… hardly appropriate situations. Madara, stubbornly refusing to confront his feelings, at least had to admit to himself that he was experiencing something akin to a small, insignificant, definitely fleeting (if monthslong already) crush.

 _Gods above, kill me_ now _._

“No, Madara,” Hashirama’s whine draws him out of his thoughts. “Tobi is never this late, but if he promised, he _will_ show up! I’m just…” He sighs, expression turning sullen. “What if something happened to him?”

“He’s fine.” Madara huffs, extending his senses for the fifth time in the past half hour. “I can sense him flitting about on the other end of the village. With his team of brats. He’s probably training with them _or_ ,” Madara adds, shoving Hashirama lightly with his gunbai for good measure, “he isn’t showing up because of me and your stupid delusions about the non-existent possibility of us getting along.”

The truth of the words hurt, of course, but Madara ignores it; whatever feelings he has for the Senju he will confront in due time. Someday. Instead, he levels Hashirama with a glare that makes the man all but wilt, making the branches of nearby trees droop to match his mood.

Madara… breathes. Closes his eyes. Counts to ten and lets out another beleaguered sigh.

“We’ll wait five more minutes,” he relents, and wonders whether it’s any time soon that he’ll become immune to his best friend beaming at him when he gets his way.

Madara gives him a smile which he hopes looks less like a grimace than his usual attempts while Hashirama, as he is wont to do since the burgeoning morning and well into the night, goes on babbling about this and that, about how the village has achieved unprecedented milestones and—

“I don’t believe anything is truly impossible,” Hashirama says, “and if you and Tobi have at least stopped trying to kill each other every time you cross paths, you can definitely become friends.”

“Oh?” Madara raises an eyebrow. “Nothing is impossible, you say? Tell me, how is the Secret Taijutsu Super Katon Genjutsu Cutting Big Shuriken Double Drop Technique faring?”

Hashirama’s face shifts from his excited mask to complete neutrality.

“It doesn’t ring any bells, Madara.”

“Lies.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Tobirama told me a story the other day,” Madara continues his teasing, “That you honestly tried to make it work up until your late teens.” He realizes his mistake too late.

“See?” Hashirama says, eyes glinting with glee as he wraps an arm around Madara’s shoulders. “You two managed _a story_ without me acting as a mediator. You’re starting to enjoy each other’s company! Now that’s what I call progress.”

“That’s what I call _reluctant_ tolerance.” Madara rolls his eyes and ignores the way his heart seems to skip a beat. If only he could enjoy Tobirama’s company more often…

He banishes the thought. Now is no time for daydreaming. He needs a plan of action.

If even Hashirama, the notoriously oblivious idiot, has noticed a change in Madara and Tobirama’s interactions, this was straying into dangerous territory. Madara wouldn’t exactly call what they have friendly. Perhaps tentatively neutral, at best, with the added hassle of Madara’s stupid infatuation with the many amazing facets of Tobirama’s personality. And looks.

 _Gods, no,_ Madara thinks. He forcefully shakes away the images of Tobirama’s lithe form, always so perfectly accentuated by his _tight-fitting_ clothes lest he die in shame right on the spot.

Madara remembers when it was easy to hate him. When he was Izuna’s opponent, a constant threat to his brother’s life and well-being. A danger to any Uchiha who would be stupid enough to cross his path and inevitably be wiped out by a new jutsu or other that the White Demon of the Senju would have up his sleeve.

He doesn’t remember when it became easy to like him. To admire Tobirama’s dedication to every aspect of building a village from scratch—it seemed he had a hand in every administrative and technical task, efficiently taking care of any and all bureaucratic issues that Hashirama so despised. To see him as more than Butsuma’s perfected soldier, to marvel at the kindness in his eyes as he trained children of any clan, indiscriminate and fair, to feel a blush creeping every time Tobirama smiles and—

Kami, that smile, always framed by those adorable dimples, the sight of which never failed to steal Madara’s breath away.

The smile he now sees before him as Tobirama appears on the training field in a flash of golden lightning, eyes glinting and face radiating happiness in a way Madara rarely sees.

A scandal, really.

He wishes for the privilege to witness that every day, if Tobirama is so willing.

However—

“Anija.” Tobirama’s smile disappears the minute his crimson eyes meet Madara’s, and Madara feels his heart sinking in answer. “Uchiha. Right. I forgot you’d be here.”

Truly, Madara has it bad. And to top his suffering, the object of his increasingly obvious desire hates his guts.

It bothers him like a particularly stubborn wound, and his hands start itching for battle, the adrenaline of it sure to distract him from his suffering.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m here, Senju. And you made us wait this long, so _you_ get your ass kicked first.” He gestures to the center of the training field. “Go on now, choose your weapon.”

Tobirama levels him with a glare that has Madara’s pulse quickening, and not just in anticipation of a violent spar. Raijin no Ken’s handle appears in his hands, and soon blazes with yellow lightning, illuminating the field in the dimness of the morning.

“Bold of you to assume your victory when it’s your first time facing me in a fight, Uchiha,” Tobirama says, as Madara summons his gunbai.

“I don’t assume, Senju. I _know_ ,” Madara says, flashing him a wide grin. Letting off some steam will be a great relief of tension, Madara thinks. The rush of battle will help him forget about these bothersome feelings at least for a little while. “Now get ready to dance.”

* * *

Madara genuinely thought his first time sparring with Tobirama was going to be fun.

Half an hour later, Madara thinks that a week-long meeting with cantankerous elders would be less of a torment than whatever _this_ is.

An hour later, he just wants to scream.

He’s heard much from Izuna about Tobirama’s vehement fighting style, of course, and even glimpsed it, at times, on the battlefield—Tobirama is terrifyingly fast, aiming precise blows exactly where it hurt, equipped with dozens of jutsu at the ready to put his opponent through living hell. Even so, Madara had always thought himself powerful enough to face anything Tobirama may throw at him—they were far from evenly matched in terms of chakra reserves and raw power, after all.

Turns out, he’s an idiot, and Tobirama spars against Madara like he’s _actually_ trying to kill him. Not that Madara is unable to keep up—but it’s _quite_ the noticeable challenge compared to his spars with Hashirama and Izuna, and the sheer speed of the Senju’s movements is a frustration beyond compare. If not for the Sharingan, Madara would scarcely be able to track him, and so he sends an absentminded prayer to the Sage of Six Paths for the blessed gift of his clan’s dōjutsu.

Tobirama scales the ground and moves through the air just as fluidly as Madara imagines he swims in water, and it would be an enjoyable view, if Madara didn’t keep getting increasingly pissed off. Tobirama moves as if it isn’t at all a bother for him to evade _three consecutive firestorms_ , then to _disappear entirely_ for a few torturous seconds, invisible to Madara’s Sharingan and not present anywhere in Madara’s sensing range and _then_ to reappear behind Madara, katana at the ready, leaving barely enough time for Madara to duck and avoid his head (or a chunk of hair, kami forbid) being sliced off.

Madara leaps away, heart pounding and Sharingan straining to keep Tobirama in sight. He does _not_ yelp. He is _not_ the least bit intimidated.

And he most certainly does _not_ find Tobirama’s elegant movements, the slanted eyes and posture oozing danger _the least bit_ attractive.

(The stupidest, common-sense-less part of Madara’s brain yearns to disagree. It’s maddening.)

“You’re not keeping your word, Uchiha,” Tobirama says, lips twisted in a devastating smirk, voice rough with adrenaline. “Where’s the ass-kicking you promised? Are you not up for the task after all?”

Madara chuckles. Where has this playful side of Tobirama’s been hiding? A side that makes him ever more… tolerable, Madara allows himself the small concession.

“I’m going easy on you, Senju,” Madara says, damnably short of breath as Tobirama stands there, perfectly composed and seemingly unaffected. “But it would be unfair for me to use my Mangekyō after all. Or would you like a swift end to our spar?”

Tobirama narrows his eyes. “Bring it, Uchiha. I’ve always wondered what it’s like to go up against it.”

It was probably true; Tobirama loved a challenge after all, and almost never got to face Izuna’s Mangekyō during their battles, due to Madara’s strict orders to his little brother to use it as little as possible to avoid going blind. Madara couldn’t be afforded such a luxury, facing one hailed as the God of Shinobi, but surprisingly, it was thanks to Tobirama that he is able to use his Mangekyō Sharingan now without worry about the adverse effects. Tobirama, horrified when he was told about the dangers Kagami could face as his newly awakened Sharingan would develop, descended into a research binge and found the most painless way to attain the Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan through simple eye replacement and concentrated chakra transference. Dozens of generations of Uchiha tainted by the tragedy became a painful memory of the past in the face of the now brighter future.

Thanks to this _genius_.

Madara wishes the two of them weren’t so at odds but considering their playful banter and Tobirama’s more amused than disdainful mood, Madara would call this a start.

He focuses and forms Susanoo, feeling a little more at ease now that he’s in his element. His confidence is a bit shaken, though, as he starts to attack and finds out just how Tobirama plans to counter him: a new type of clone jutsu.

“Oooh, shadow clones!” Hashirama helpfully supplies from where he’s lounging on a tree branch and cheering for his brother. “You finally perfected it! Go beat him Tobi!”

“Traitor,” Madara growls.

“A loyal brother,” Hashirama corrects him.

Madara ignores whatever else he’s started rambling about in favor of focusing the brunt of his Susanoo’s force on the four Tobiramas he can see down below. They all appear indistinguishable from the original and surprisingly hard to dispel, even as Madara all but destroys the training ground with blow after blow, and one is _sure_ to land just right so as not to maim or seriously hurt, just to weasel out the original and—

The Hiraishin is a problem. With four versions of Tobirama appearing randomly and aiming at his Susanoo’s weak points, Madara has to be even quicker to dodge any potentially dangerous blows, and it only feeds his festering frustration. He inhales deeply and focuses all of his chakra sense, his Sharingan, his Susanoo’s awareness on the four lightning fast attackers, finally managing to trip and dispel one, and another with a precise fire jutsu from above, leaving Tobirama and one of his clones crouched on the ground, preparing for whatever attack they’ve planned next.

“Impressive, Uchiha,” one of them says, amused.

“But much less of a challenge than I’d hoped for,” says presumably the original, standing up and making the hand signs to make more clones.

Madara only scoffs and doesn’t deign to grace that with an answer, opting to launch another large-scale attack to thwart Tobirama’s casting of the jutsu. He’s successful for little less than a minute before he learns of the curious modification to this particular technique that, admittedly, does put a swift end to their fight.

Because apparently, Tobirama can create over five fucking hundred copies of himself, all just as powerful as the original and abusing the Hiraishin at every possible second. And admittedly, Madara did keep behaving like a bit of an idiot. Not accounting for the fact that the Susanoo moves much slower than Tobirama and his instaneous teleportations. Not negating most of the attacks by strengthening specific parts of his Susanoo to the maximum and using Blaze Release at a much, much wider scale than he’s used to—but he let himself be caught off guard.

And ended up with his ass on the ground and Tobirama’s kunai pointed at his throat, as the cheating bastard’s lips twist in a self-satisfied smirk.

“Dead,” Tobirama announces. “Your cognitive abilities must be afflicted. Hadn’t you _known_ you would win, Uchiha?”

Madara scowls.

“Fuck. You,” he growls the words, snapping away Tobirama’s hand. He stands up with all the dignity he can muster and surveys the genius before him, trying to keep up the anger but only finding himself reluctantly impressed.

He wonders why the gods chose to punish him so.

Meanwhile Hashirama rushes to where they’ve ended up deep in the forest a mile or two away from the training ground.

“Tobirama!” Hashirama shouts. “Secondly, that was amazing. But first of all,” he says, eyes narrowing in suspicion, “how much chakra did you even spend to make so many clones?”

Tobirama blinks.

“A considerable amount. But nothing serious.”

“You _told_ me this wouldn’t have to be declared kinjutsu.”

“And it doesn’t have to be,” Tobirama protests. A pause. “At least, the most basic form. I’ll concede that the Multi-Shadow Clone jutsu may possibly... quite probably lead to lethal chakra exhaustion if attempted by most, but—”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama whines.

“It’s perfectly safe if used correctly.”

“You didn’t know that at first! Why would you even attempt it?”

“For experimentation’s sake.”

“But—”

“Later, Anija,” Tobirama says firmly. “We’ll discuss it later, because unlike you two, I’d like to get back to work sooner.” He turns to Madara once more. “Thanks for the spar, Uchiha. I could be convinced to make it a habit of knocking down your ego as much. It’s quite enjoyable.”

“Likewise, Tobirama,” Madara drawls, “You were more capable than I’d expected, I’ll give you that. Of course, your underhanded tactics allowed you to win, as usual, but don’t expect me to be as… unprepared in the future.”

Any remnants of Tobirama’s grin disappear in an instant.

“ _Underhanded?_ ”

“Well, yes, what else would you like me to call that cheater’s jutsu of yours?”

“It’s not,” Tobirama says, “a cheater’s jutsu. I developed it myself just like I do any other technique, and the fact that you could find no opening with that unbeatable Mangekyō of yours is _on you_.”

Madara feels his eye twitching. “Gods, Senju, can’t you just take the compliment and leave?”

“If you call that a compliment, I’d recommend you revisit lessons in social propriety,” Tobirama suggests, “which you obviously skipped.”

“While I’m at it,” Madara says sweetly, “do actually educate yourself in the ways of honorable combat.”

To be fair, they were shinobi, and in their world, it never really was required to fight fairly. But Madara could allow himself to be at least a little bitter.

Tobirama just rolls his eyes.

“Go fuck yourself, Uchiha,” he says.

“Up yours, Senju,” Madara growls, just before Tobirama disappears, Madara’s senses registering his reappearance on the other side of the village. “What a fucking prick.”

“Uh,” Hashirama supplies. “Madara? Don’t you think…”

Madara levels him with a glare.

“ _What?_ ”

“Nothing, nothing,” his fool of a best friend answers with a nervous laugh. “So, ready for another spar?”

“Not in the mood.” Madara continues to glare as he summons his gunbai from where he’d long since abandoned it, giving it a cursory cleaning.

“But Madara! We came here for a spar _together_.”

“Find someone else.”

“But—”

“Use that cloning jutsu of your brother’s, why don’t you,” Madara spits bitterly, turning to leave.

“Oh! What if I henge into Tobirama and you get to beat me up a bit?”

That stops Madara in his tracks. Hashirama jumps in front of him, now a perfect imitation of the damnable—damnably attractive—younger brother.

Madara grins.

“Ten minutes.”

“Deal!”

The standstill they end up in takes them another hour.

* * *

“Your brother,” Tobirama says, downing his cup of tea like a glass of sake, “is an utter idiot.”

“Hm, what else is new?” Izuna sips on his tea slowly, trying to hide the grin Tobirama absolutely knows is there. Izuna sighs as Tobirama glares at him with the most petulant pout curling his lips, though that’s something he’ll deny doing to his dying day. “What did he do _now_ , Tobirama?”

It’s not exactly a rare occurrence for him to listen to Tobirama whine (again, something Tobirama would never admit to doing) about another one of Madara’s idiotic antics. Same complaints, day after day, in the same tea shop near the Uchiha district that they always pay a visit to after their lunch break.

Izuna could bet that Tobirama didn’t realize just how often he complained about Madara—almost as much as Madara whined about _him_ , in fact. Another thing Izuna knew Tobirama would never admit is his very obvious crush, despite how much Tobirama insisted on the term ‘reluctant tolerance’ to describe his relationship, or lack thereof, with Madara.

Izuna knew better, though. He didn’t need the Sharingan to notice the disgustingly sweet, longing looks the two gave each other when they thought the other wasn’t looking. He wasn’t fooled by their incessant whining about each other, because both of them obviously lacked in social skill and, consequently, flirting etiquette and _never_ noticed the satisfied grins they had plastered on their face after their rare occasions of playful banter that didn’t end in a screaming match. And of course, Izuna was sure even a person without the avid sexual experience he had would notice, if they looked for it, the way Tobirama stared far longer than necessary at Madara’s abs when he discarded his shirt to demonstrate intricate fire jutsu to Tobirama’s Uchiha students. Or the way Madara’s eyes lingered and quivered like he was fighting not to turn the Sharingan on when Tobirama wore that tight-fitting black clothing Madara insisted made him look like an idiot.

Izuna closes his eyes and sighs.

Truly, his brother and best friend were prime examples of absolute idiots.

Idiots that consistently got on his nerves, on top of that.

So, Izuna decides to take matters into his own hands.

Drawing himself out of his musings, he tunes into Tobirama’s detailed explanation of why that exact angle of Madara’s smirk was borderline condescending. Izuna rolls his eyes and promptly cuts him off,

“Tobirama, listen.” His friend scowls (adorably) at being interrupted, but quiets down immediately. Much unlike Madara when _he’s_ interrupted, Tobirama doesn't dissolve into senseless shouting, for which Izuna is infinitely grateful. “I consider you my best friend. Is that sentiment returned?”

Izuna stares expectantly as Tobirama’s expression shuffles between surprise, confusion, suspicion and, finally settles on tentatively content.

“Of course, it is,” he says slowly.

“Wonderful,” Izuna says, smiling sweetly. “Now, that implies we have some measure of trust between us, doesn’t it?”

Tobirama inches another (sixth) cup of tea closer and takes a drink before he replies,

“Correct. Where is this going?”

“This is going into the yet unfamiliar territory of _me_ giving _you_ useful life advice instead of the other way around,” Izuna says, “because you—and nii-san, for that matter, are behaving like a pair of fools.”

“ _Excuse_ me?”

“Because—and tell me if I’m wrong—you wouldn’t mind if Madara acted civil towards you, right?”

“Of course, I wouldn’t mind!” Tobirama stares at Izuna like he’s the idiot here. Ironic. “That’s what I was saying to you the past few minutes if you even bothered to listen. He behaves like an asshole!”

“An asshole you wouldn’t mind being your friend instead?” Izuna prompted.

That stopped Tobirama short and he took another big sip of his tea, which Izuna was suspecting he was doing to gather his thoughts.

“Suppose so,” he mutters.

“And maybe something more?” Izuna presses further, rolling his eyes at Tobirama’s confused stare. “Like a romantic partner, Tobirama. Your crush is very obvious.”

Izuna snorts. Tobirama actually spills his tea with the force of his spluttering. And flailing.

“Admit to it,” Izuna continues, not even bothering to suppress his grin, “start behaving like a proper human being and ask him out, otherwise I’m going to have to punch you whenever you mention him when we’re supposed to be talking about things that concern _both of us_ , because I’m your _friend,_ not a whining buddy.”

He can’t stop the laugh that bubbles up as he watches Tobirama spouting nonsensical syllables before finally settling on words.

“I do _not_ ,” Tobirama said, face almost as red as his eyes at this point, “whine.”

“Oh?” Izuna asks. “You deny that but not the fact that you have a crush on my brother?”

“No!” Tobirama shouts, making some of the visitors turn their heads at the commotion. “I mean yes! I mean no, there is no crush and you’re the idiot here. I’m just frustrated with your brother’s behavior, that’s all.”

“So, the fact that Madara very evidently returns your feelings isn’t at all of interest to you?” Izuna says, unrelenting.

He chuckles again at the shock on Tobirama’s face. Truly, he can’t believe a mere two years ago he’d thought him of nothing more than an emotionless, ruthless White Demon of the Senju; once he warmed up enough to someone, he shuffled through emotions almost as fast as Hashirama, though nowhere near on the same scale, of course, and more prone to bursts of anger than fake depression.

“Tobirama?”

The man in question is staring at Izuna with eyes full of disappointment, and Izuna resisted the urge to groan because of course he’d misinterpreted something incorrectly. Again. As always.

“The jest isn’t appreciated, Izuna,” Tobirama says simply.

“It’s not a joke,” Izuna protests, “I know my brother, I know how he behaves and—”

“Insults me at every opportunity—”

“Just like he does his _best_ friend, your brother—”

“And is, then, at most open to friendship and not—”

“—whom he doesn’t _ogle_ the way he does _you_ when you dress like…” Izuna gestures to Tobirama’s current attire, clingy shirt, tight-fitting pants and all. “Like this.”

Tobirama frowns. “What’s wrong with my everyday clothing?”

Izuna pinches the bridge of his nose. _This man._

“Maybe he’ll explain it to you someday,” Izuna dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “For now, focus on one thing. Stopping the cycle of violent verbal outbursts and establishing rapport with him. Maybe try a gift? A show of good faith clear enough for even nii-san to understand.”

“It’s a ridiculous idea, Izuna, and I wouldn’t know what to give him anyway,” Tobirama says. “If he was the least bit inclined to a closer relationship, he wouldn’t behave as if he hates me. Condescending and patronizing and just…” He heaves an explosive sigh. “It’s not worth it.”

“First of all, I’m his brother, dummy,” Izuna enunciates every word, because it seems it’s a Senju family trait for grown men to behave like petulant children. “I’ll tell you what he wants. And second of all, I can bet every ryo I have in my pocket that Madara thinks exactly the same thing about you.” He smirks. “You two are pretty similar, actually, and you’d see that clearer if you both got your heads out of your asses and just—talked.”

“I honestly don’t know what to do with you, Izuna,” Tobirama says, face a mask of pure exhaustion. “You’re more annoying than Anija.”

“Because I’m actually perceptive and not a complete idiot?” Izuna offers.

“Hm. Yeah. That.”

Tobirama is content to let their conversation fall into silence after that, but Izuna knows him well enough to tell he’s carefully considering what they’ve discussed. Processing information meticulously before making a decision, which Izuna knows is coming even before the words leave Tobirama’s mouth.

“I’m listening,” Tobirama grumbled, eyes narrowed in a tell-tale sign of annoyance, even as Izuna sees the barely noticeable curl of his lips. “What gift would Madara appreciate?”

 _Victory_ , Izuna thinks, resisting the urge to yell it out for the whole tea shop to hear.

With his guidance, _nothing_ could go wrong.

* * *

Of _course,_ the two of them had to make _everything_ go _horribly fucking wrong._

“How,” Izuna says, dejected. “How even—I… _how,_ Tobirama? What did you _do_?”

Tobirama sighs explosively from where he’s lounging on Izuna’s couch, surrounded by three of Izuna’s cats as they purr in delight for their favorite guest. Lounging _and sulking_ , because Madara apparently _threw a giant vase full of water at him_ for whatever slight he committed.

“I _hate_ your brother,” Tobirama says, petting Etsu and Kuro gently as they preen. Fuku, the ginger troublemaker, is, as always, sleeping peacefully on his stomach; he only behaves well around Tobirama, the _traitor_. “He is impossible, and an idiot and the most _infuriating_ person in the world.”

“Fair enough,” Izuna concedes, “but I told you to give him _a gift._ What did he find wrong with that?” He narrows his eyes. “Admit it—did you throw it at his face first?”

Tobirama’s glare spells death, and so Izuna hands him his second cup of tea that seems to appease him a bit. Kuro, not so much, because Tobirama had to stop petting her, so she deserted him for her owner’s lap.

“Go on, talk. What happened?”

_*an hour earlier*_

_“Uchiha,” Tobirama calls for him as Madara leaves his office. He’s timed it perfectly right, focusing his senses on Madara’s movements so he would leave his office at the same time without lurking suspiciously outside Madara’s door._

_He realizes he focused so much on timing that he’d forgotten one of Izuna’s instructions._

_Tobirama clears his throat as Madara turns around to face him with a confused frown. “Madara.”_ Address him by name. _“I have something for you.”_ Present the gift, then talk. _“A present.”_

_“A what.” Madara blinks. “Senju—”_

_“A gift,” Tobirama repeats, unsealing the elegantly forged naginata he’d purchased from the best blacksmith in their village—a weapon Izuna had mentioned Madara’s been wanting to try out for a long time. “You appreciate weaponry, as I’ve heard, and I thought this an acceptable offering to establish a… truce of sorts. We keep getting off on the wrong foot,” Tobirama can’t stop himself from rambling and mentally kicks himself. Why does attraction do this to people? “We work in close quarters and I’d like to change th—Madara, what are you doing?”_

_Mangekyō activated, Madara’s taken a cautious step towards Tobirama, examining him from several angles as if he’s about to explode any second._

_“Seems real,” he mumbles, “but can’t be.”_

_Tobirama can already feel the headache mounting._

_“Madara, I’m very real, this is a very real gift, which I_ hope _you will accept,” Tobirama says through his teeth, struggling to keep his tone more or less civil._

_Madara scans him with his Sharingan once more. “Are you one of his shadow clones gone rogue?” he asks._

_Tobirama clenches his free hand into a fist._

_“No.”_

_“Did someone bribe you?”_

_“Hardly.”_

_“Hashirama forced you to do this, didn’t he?”_

_“Uchiha,” Tobirama growls, “this is a gift. From_ me. _No one else. Can’t you just accept it like a normal person?” he echoes the words Madara had thrown at him the day before._

_“Hm.”_

_Madara’s eyes narrow further. He takes a couple more hesitant steps, takes the presented weapon in hand and, presumably, scans it for traps. Finding none, his gaze softens, and he examines the naginata itself, humming thoughtfully as he appraises the design._

_“Quite an… impressive gift, Senju,” he says. “Tobirama,” he corrects himself, giving him a curt nod and small smile, “I suppose thanks are in order. This is quite unexpected.”_

_“I’m glad it’s to your liking,” Tobirama says with a smile of his own. They’re being so unusually civil with each other which throws him off; they’d have normally traded at least a couple of insults by now. But this is good, he reminds himself, progress. More sure of himself now, he adds, “You must let me show you how to use it next time we meet for a spar.”_

_All traces of a smile on Madara’s face are replaced with his usual scowl._

_“Oh, so that’s what this is,” he says, “if you’re implying that I lack skill in combat—"_

_“Wha—I…” Tobirama shakes his head._ Godsdammit, here we go again.

 _“—you can go fuck yourself, Senju, with_ this very gift _,” Madara punctuates his words by shoving the spear back into Tobirama’s hands, “and_ stop patronizing me _!”_

Remain civil, _Izuna’s words ring through his head._

_“I would,” Tobirama says, “if you actually made use of the brain you have in that head of yours.”_

_Ignoring_ that _piece of advice it is._

“We slipped back into our usual form of _conversation,”_ Tobirama air quotes the word, “and he grabbed one of those flower vases Hashirama has stationed on every damned windowsill and _threw it at my face_.”

Etsu meowed as if in agreement with his indignation.

“Uh huh,” Izuna contributes. “And you…”

“Froze the water into shards and cut up his clothes, of course,” Tobirama says as if it’s the most obvious answer.

“Oh no.” Izuna buries his head in his hands, clawing at his hair and cursing the gods for inflicting these two idiots upon the earth. “Right. Right. You, uh, you did not follow all of my advice.”

“I will not behave in a civilized manner with a tactless fool,” Tobirama says, crossing his arms. “I mean—"

“But!” Izuna cuts in. “I forgive you. Madara, not so much.” He cracks the knuckles in his hand in preparation of ‘talking’ some sense into his brother. “I’ll have a little chat with him.”

He stands up, surveys Tobirama still lounging lazily on the couch, sighs and asks, “You’re not leaving?”

“I like it here.”

“You have your own house, you know.”

“And _you_ have cats.”

Izuna sighs as Etsu intensifies his purring at the words. He can’t help a smile though; he might complain, but it is enjoyable having Tobirama around so often since he and Madara chose to live in separate houses. He kept getting lonely.

“Fine. Just—don’t blow up my kitchen again, okay? The whole house is a no-experiments zone, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah…” Tobirama’s attention seemed to be completely fixed on Kuro, who’s jumped back on his lap, so Izuna was a bit doubtful he’d heard that.

He scoffed. Whatever. Unlike last time, he’d make Tobirama pay for _every single_ scrap of damage.

* * *

All things considered, Izuna’s talk with Madara goes quite well.

Not too well for Madara, who’d ended up on the receiving end of a lot of punches, but well enough to finally ensure a brighter future for Izuna’s precious people.

It’s his luck though, that he doesn’t get to see Madara’s reformed behavior because their esteemed Hokage decides it’s the best time to send him on a day-long mission.

And miss _all_ the fun.

“It’s nothing serious, Izuna, just a short escort mission,” Hashirama implores. “Don’t be so upset.”

“I’m not, I’m not,” Izuna grumbles, “it’s just… not a good time.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Perfectly.”

“Are you sure?” Hashirama, the ever-sympathetic idiot, gets that dangerous look in his eyes that Izuna has come to associate with an impending hug, so he takes a step back for good measure.

“Yes, Hashirama, and please sit down, I do not need a hug.”

Hashirama’s gloom lasts for a split second before it’s replaced by a grin so wide Izuna wonders if their Hokage’s face is going to burst.

“Then I’ll be expecting you in a stellar mood for my birthday party the day after tomorrow!” he says, tone trembling with excitement. “You’ll be there, right? Madara’s going and Tobirama is, too and everyone is invited! It’s going to be huge.”

Izuna could swear there are stars in Hashirama’s eyes. What a child.

“Sure, sure,” Izuna says. “May I go now? To take care of the mission quickly so I actually make it on time?”

“Of course, Izuna-chan, you’re dismissed. And have fun!” 

Hashirama waves him goodbye with the same unrelenting grin and Izuna grits his teeth at the diminutive.

“You have fun without me too, Hokage-sama,” he drawls, long-suffering, before hopping out the window.

Despite the immense annoyance of an unexpected mission, he does have one thing to look forward to: Madara and Tobirama at a party together is sure to spell _some_ kind of amusing disaster.

Izuna can’t _wait._

* * *

The mission turns out to be so boring that it’s exhausting.

Izuna returns in due time and, thankful that it’s the weekend, spends half the day training until his muscles start aching, because over twenty hours spent on the road without so much as a wild animal crossing their path quite nearly drove him insane. Peacetime is amazing in its lack of constant death and mourning, but, unfortunately, quite bland. His only source of excitement these days are the antics of his cats, the more disastrous antics of his brother, and watching Tobirama be a complete genius in everything but romance.

Speaking of them, it is a little surprising that neither turned up at his place to greet him, even though his absence was short-lived. They would both sense he was back in the village after all, and Tobirama scarcely missed a moment to spoil his cats while Madara was prone to hovering like a mother hen. Izuna hopes that meant they were together somewhere, taking care of their complicated web of unresolved feelings. Or sexual tension, for that matter.

_Ugh._

Izuna shakes his head.

No, better not think about _that_.

He finishes his post-training stretches and hops into his house, just in time to clean up and prepare for Hashirama’s birthday celebration. He dug up the present he’d prepared per Tobirama’s advice—because he was far too lazy to choose one for the overgrown tree himself—and headed to the Hokage Residence.

“Izuna-chan! You came!”

Hashirama’s childish shouting is his greeting, obviously, and then gasps and more yelling when Izuna shoved his present in his face—a huge illustrated book of the most renowned woodcutting art pieces from every single known country in the world. Surprisingly, Tobirama revealed that Hashirama actually loved to read, almost as much as Tobirama himself, in fact. And, well. Woodcutting.

Of course.

As Tobirama had promised, Hashirama is beyond delighted.

There’s quite a lot of people gathered in the main room, and Izuna easily slips into what he does best: mingling and socializing, collecting curious pieces of gossip, all the while getting steadily drunk. He spots Tobirama soon enough, and though he sends Izuna a gentle pulse of chakra to signify that he’s noticed him, he’s too far lost in conversation with Mito, as Tsunade, his recently born niece sleeps peacefully on his lap.

Truly, Tobirama has a talent for calming any destructive force of nature, be it the ocean, hellish cats, or children.

Making a note to talk to him later, Izuna scans the room for his elusive brother, whom he finally notices huddled near the corner fireplace, avoiding large groups of people like the plague (as always) and slowly sipping his drink as he surveys the guests.

Or— _oh_. One particular guest, to be precise.

Izuna resists the urge to shake his head. He’s always lamented Madara’s lack of social graces but has long since given up on trying to make him behave properly in public. Madara catches his gaze then, giving him a small smile and a nod, but making no move to approach him. Izuna is caught in conversation with about twelve people at the moment, so he hastily excuses himself and, grabbing another drink, heads towards his brother.

“How did it go?” Izuna asks.

“No greetings?” Madara raises an eyebrow. “And you’ll have to specify.”

“Hi, yeah, whatever. I don’t need to be civil with you, _nii-san_ ,” Izuna parries, with a shit-eating grin, knowing Madara won’t follow through with the urge to punch him right in front of so many people. “Now tell me, did you talk to Tobirama like I told you to? With my meticulously written instructions, I hope?”

Madara’s face darkens.

“Ah. Yeah.”

“And?”

“Bad. He’s a dick.”

“A dick you’d like to ride apparently, judging by the way you were undressing him with your eyes before you spotted me,” Izuna says, grin widening as Madara’s face turns completely red in a split-second, and he starts spluttering nonsense while _avoiding Izuna’s gaze._ Interesting. His little crush must be much worse than he thought. “The kimono does suit him well, doesn’t it? He’s certainly easy on the ey—”

“Izuna!” Madara regains his speech. “Just—quiet, all right?” he switches his tone to a shouty murmur, “he might hear you!”

“It’s good that you’ve stopped denying it,” Izuna says, grabbing the glass of sake from Madara’s still flailing hand. “Acceptance of your feelings is the first step to happiness. Now.” He takes a small sip. “I’m tipsy enough to listen to your story of failure and _not_ judge you too much.”

Madara lets out a frustrated sigh.

“He’s an idiot, okay? I came to him like you told me to…”

“Where?”

“His office.”

Madara glances to where Tobirama’s suddenly moved—well, was moved by Hashirama and was apparently being roped into a drinking contest with his brother.

Izuna snaps his fingers in front of Madara’s face. “Hey, focus, ogle later.”

“ _I_ _do not_ —ugh, never mind,” Madara huffs, running his hand through his hair. “In his office. I asked him for a few moments of his time.” He pauses. “Politely.”

“How, exactly?” Izuna isn’t about to be fooled.

Madara rolls his eyes. “’Greetings, Tobirama. May I please ask for a few minutes of your time to discuss a matter that concerns both of us?’”

Izuna snorts. “That must have shocked him.”

“It did. And the apology too. And I apologized politely, too!” Madara rambles. “And everything seemed to be going well…”

“Yes?”

“Until, uh…” Madara scrunches his eyes, as if remembering a traumatic experience.

“Go on.”

“I offered to help him with his paperwork,” Madara says. “A show of kindness, right? And caring? Just like you told me!” Madara’s voice is a bit frantic, so Izuna returns his drink to him in hopes it’ll calm him down. “And then he exploded at me and all but tossed me out of his office—okay, I may be exaggerating, but there was a _lot_ of shoving—”

“How exactly,” Izuna asks, knowing the issue must have been precisely the wording, “did you offer to help him?”

Madara downs the last of his drink and quotes, “’You look like you’re in need of assistance with all these piles of paperwork. Let me help you so you don’t mess anything up.’”

Izuna facepalms. Internally.

“Let me guess, he accused _you_ of accusing _him_ of being incompetent?”

“Yes! Even though I was just offering to _help him!_ ” Madara doesn’t quite raise his voice, but still makes it seem as if he’s shouting. “What is _wrong_ with him?”

Far be it from Madara to understand that he behaved the exact same way the day before, but Izuna decides not to point it out.

“A tragedy,” he says instead, “truly, a sign of the end of times.”

“Izuna,” Madara growls, “not helping.”

“And I’ve decided that I won’t,” Izuna announces, curling his arm around Madara’s shoulders. “You see, I’ve told you _both_ —” it’s a pleasure to see Madara’s eyes widen in bewilderment, “—how to work through this, this… whatever it is you two have, and if neither of you is willing to listen,” Izuna shrugs, “I’ll leave you to your own devices. One tip, though: wait until he’s sufficiently drunk to attempt talking, okay? And have a few more of those yourself.” He gestures to the endlessly replenishable supply of drinks on a table nearby.

“Traitor,” Madara mutters. “You could be more sympathetic, you know.”

“No one has ever accused me of being sympathetic, or merciful or, least of all kind,” Izuna says, “especially to idiots,” he finishes sweetly.

With that, he turns to leave, practically feeling the pain of Madara’s struggle with the chaos doubtless raging in his mind. Izuna has lost all faith in both his friend and brother at this point, but perhaps, blind luck will help them figure it out.

He, meanwhile, needed another drink.

* * *

Madara watches from his seat at the mostly empty table as the Senju brothers get steadily more drunk with each gigantic drink they consume, a huge crowd gathered around them, cheering one or the other on. Apparently, Hashirama’s roped his brother into indulging his drinking contest idea as a part of his present. Well.

It was proving to be fun.

Madara hoped his fixation on Tobirama wasn’t too obvious, but he was missing the capacity to care too much about that with the alcohol thrumming in his own veins. As he watched him and listened to bits and pieces of conversation, he realized it wasn’t as much a contest between them—more of a bet with some of Hashirama’s friends, who couldn’t believe that Tobirama could hold his own against Hashirama in a drinking game. Honestly, Madara would be of the same opinion, if not for the crystal clear evidence of the opposite: Tobirama seemed to be on the same level of unsteady as Hashirama was, not even close to passing out even though they’d both consumed a normally lethal amount of alcohol by this point.

Madara scoffs. _Senju_. All giant genes and unbreakable constitution.

Maddening.

He takes a drink just as the Senju brothers consume their last ones and having gathered enough courage, decides to confront Tobirama now. No plan. No preparation. Just loose inhibitions and want—and not only in the physical sense. He saw Tobirama with others, talking, laughing, at ease like he never was in combat or at work, and Madara craved that same closeness and familiarity, which was always just out of reach. Always ruined by some damnable problem or other.

“Well, now that we’ve proven everything to you, Katsuki-san,” Tobirama says suddenly, “I’m going to get some air.”

He stands up just a bit clumsily, managing to retain the general fluidity of his movements, and makes for the front door, leaving Hashirama to ramble at the crowd.

“So see, Tobi is totally able to match me!” he gushes, every word layered with drunken laughter. “In everything! Well, almost everything, except for the Mokuton, of course.”

“But surely, Hokage-sama, nobody can beat you in combat?” somebody asks.

“Nahhh, Tobirama wins all the time if he isn’t feeling lazy! Which is about half the time. Did I ever tell you how he _faked the Mokuton_ and I almost _died_ from the shock—”

Madara tunes the conversation out, rolling his eyes at his friend’s behavior, and makes a note to actually _see_ the Senju brothers sparring at some point. For now, though, he gathers all his courage and heads after Tobirama.

* * *

Tobirama leans against the wall of the mansion, overlooking the surrounding garden Hashirama had cultivated with the utmost care and diligence. It’s a beautiful sight. A sight that makes him feel ‘warm and fuzzy’ inside, as Hashirama likes to describe it.

It’s strange, so strange, to be able to stand there so relaxed, inebriated and only moderately alert to the world around him, knowing that his safety is more or less assured.

He still wonders if this is all a dream. Dreads to awaken, if that is the case.

But pain blooms in his nerves when he’s hurt, the world seems as it should be, and all of this feels real. Genuine. Almost perfect. Almost, if there wasn’t this strange longing in him for something more than the first real friend he’s ever had, a home safe from constant enemy attacks, and the family he’s fought to protect and now has beside him, safe and sound.

Madara comes to mind, because of course he does.

An unattainable dream, it seems, but Tobirama remembers this very village being one he’d thought impossible as well. He sighs. Tries to redirect his thoughts to other matters, but the jumbled mess that they’ve become focuses on one man, his smile, the memory of which soon has Tobirama grinning like a fool.

He can pinpoint the exact moment he’d started seeing Madara as more than a permanently angry asshole and his brother’s best friend: when he fought tooth and nail against the elders’ objections to Tobirama’s plans for the academy. It was Madara who helped sort out all the intricacies such an endeavor would require, so as to develop a project so solid neither the Council, the Daimyō, nor the Konoha clan leaders had any valid arguments against it. Three days they had spent in a sort of limbo where neither of them slept, rested, or ate much, simply worked alongside each other without so much as a round of bickering between them. Working together to reach a dream Tobirama cherished and Madara supported wholeheartedly, because _we swore that no children would have to die in battle again, and I_ intend _to follow through with that._ If they weren’t who they were, Tobirama would have hugged him then and there.

Granted, right after said project their interactions reverted to their usual aggressive back-and-forth, but it became so easy for Tobirama to see Madara in a whole new light. To notice how handsome he was and how warm his smiles were. To acquire a greater appreciation of the strength he worked so hard to maintain, honed it so it would protect instead of sow destruction. To admire his loyalty and determination. His passion. And before he knew it, emotions that Tobirama could never fully control, however much he tried, chose Madara, of all people, to be the _very distracting_ object of his affection. 

What a cruel move.

A barely perceptible shift of energy pulls him out of his thoughts.

“Madara,” he calls, “I’m a sensor.”

The man in question stops shuffling at the door and comes out to join Tobirama on the porch with a scowl that is quickly replaced by a mixture of awe and curiosity.

Tobirama realizes he’s still smiling. And acutely aware that he can’t stop.

Madara stops a few steps before him, framed by moonlight, gaze so intense even without his Sharingan that Tobirama finds himself momentarily lost in his eyes. His expression is much softer than usual, hair strung up in a high ponytail that shows more of his face, the neck Tobirama would sorely like to kiss. He stares at Tobirama for a few drawn-out moments and says,

“Never would have taken you for a giddy drunk.”

Tobirama chuckles. “Oh? And what kind of drunk did you think I’d be?”

“Angry. Stuck-up. Obnoxious,” Madara says, a devious smile playing on his lips. “More so than usual, I mean.”

“Always with the insults,” Tobirama chastises. He can’t muster any malice though; his mind is a bit too cloudy for that. “Are you sure you’re not just describing yourself, Uchiha?”

“I would have expected a smarter comeback from a renowned genius like you, Senju” Madara says.

“Said the man who’s grinning like an idiot.”

Madara huffs out a laugh. “Maybe I’m enjoying your company.”

“I’ll believe it when you act like that sober,” Tobirama says, forcibly diverting his gaze to the side to study the intricately woven flowers sprouting along the mansion wall.

“I could do that.”

Now, suppressing the smile is easy. Because no matter what Izuna says, there’s always a shade of doubt, a suspicion of ingenuity.

“And damage your infallible ego? Hardly,” Tobirama scoffs, turning to face him once more. “Don’t play games with me, Uchiha.”

“Why not?”

“You’ll lose,” Tobirama promises. “Every single one.”

“Perhaps I’m in a playful mood today,” Madara says, a pleasant lilt to his voice. “And it doesn’t have to be a competitive one.”

“Oh?”

Tobirama shifts to wrap his haori tighter around himself against the cold. Wrong move, because Madara takes this as a sign to make a small, yet warming fire, and the added pulse of _sizzlingenergyhearthsafe_ makes Tobirama shiver from something other than the cold this time. He hopes to the gods Madara doesn’t notice the hitch in his breath.

“Say, truth or dare,” Madara suggests, “and I’d like to know a truth. Tell me, why is it that I get along so well with your brother and you with mine, but you and I are at odds even when there isn’t any cause for it?”

Tobirama hums. “Many reasons, all probable, to some measure. Maybe we’re just incompatible.” Tobirama thinks he imagines Madara’s eyes flinching. “Maybe our past incarnations were mortal enemies. Perhaps one of us is an irredeemable fool,” he says, staring Madara dead in the eyes even though his war-formed instincts scream for him to avert his gaze. He merely shrugs. “Maybe we both are.”

Madara throws his head back and laughs.

“All probable, to some measure,” he echoes. “Fair enough. Well, if you’d like a truth, I’ll offer one willingly.” His smile becomes small, and if Tobirama didn’t know better, he’d say a light blush appears on his cheeks as he suddenly struggles to continue. “I truly am sorry for my…” He fumbles for words. With an adorable frown, too, as Tobirama’s mind unhelpfully supplies. “Overreactions. Overstepping. And…” Madara looks as if it physically pains him to talk, and Tobirama can’t help but chuckle. “You know. Stop laughing, Senju!”

“It’s turning into a bit of a theme, isn’t it?” Tobirama latches onto the fire hovering beside him with his own chakra and gradually intensifies the burning, illuminating both of them so it cancels out the moon’s gentle light. “Apologizing for slights. Fighting again. Rinse, repeat.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” Madara points out, beckoning the flame back and extinguishing it with a snap of his fingers. “And you look more beautiful in the moonlight, Tobirama.”

Tobirama’s breath hitches as his mind catches up to the words Madara had spoken, wondering if he’s misheard, and more importantly, whether Madara would regret them the next day.

“It doesn’t,” Tobirama agrees, “and I didn’t want a truth.”

“Oh?” Madara takes another step towards him, a devilish grin playing on his face. “What would you have me do, Tobirama?”

There’s a moment, suspended in time, when they just look at each other, unguarded emotion in their eyes, speaking in a way they won’t—or are unable to. Tobirama suddenly feels far too dizzy, far too hot. He doesn’t catch the moment he grasps the edges of Madara’s haori, drawing him towards him so they’re pressed flush against each other. He doesn’t notice when Madara’s hands land on his shoulders, they’re just suddenly _there_ stroking down his arms, tugging Tobirama down to—

Tobirama fully intended to make the kiss soft, but the very first brush of lips is more intoxicating than any drink he’s had this evening. Soft, tentative, _perfect_ for one split second before their lips lock in a messy, almost violent, yet no less perfect dance.

Madara moans, low and desperate, biting at Tobirama’s lower lip to coax his mouth open and deepen the kiss. Their tongues twine and tangle as they explore each other’s mouths, ragged breaths and wandering hands working up the heat between them to make it almost unbearable. Arms wrap around Tobirama’s neck, drawing him impossibly closer. Chakra writhes around them, their conflicting natures intermingling in a way that makes Tobirama’s head spin even more. His fingers stroke Madara’s neck, slip under the hem of his haori, and Madara makes this—sound. Almost like a whimper, drawn-out and desperate, and Tobirama _wants,_ wants Madara bare and raw and writhing in his arms like he’s never wanted anyone before and—

Madara breaks the kiss.

“Wait,” he gasps, and through the haze induced by both drink and arousal, Tobirama registers the panic in his tone.

So that’s it. He should have braced himself for disappointment.

“Tobirama, listen,” Madara says, trying and failing to catch his breath. His face is flushed, his eyes glossed over, strands of hair springing out of their hold. He looks beautiful. Mesmerizing. Just out of reach because… “I can’t.”

“Right,” Tobirama says blankly. “All right. I. I understand.”

Madara tilts his head to the side. “I didn’t even—ugh, idiot.” His grip on Tobirama’s shoulders tightens so much that it hurts. “You don’t understand. I mean, you’re not, we’re not really able to process what this entails! You may be standing but you’re plastered and I—”

Tobirama frowns. What is he saying?

“I wouldn’t want you to regret this tomorrow,” Madara admits. Dropping his arms and taking a small step back, even as Tobirama follows. “We should stop. And if you still want this after you’ve sobered up, then—"

“You’re _serious_?”

“Wh-what?” Madara looks up to meet his eyes, searching, hesitant.

“Madara, I’m an adult, if you haven’t noticed,” Tobirama says wryly, “and I’m capable of judging what I want and don’t want, thank you very much.”

Madara groans. “ _You idiot._ I have no doubt about it, but you’re drunk! And so am I!” He looks around as if to find justification for his dumb behavior. “What would your brother say?!”

Tobirama closes his eyes. Inhale. Exhale. Better not talk, he decides, otherwise they’ll end up fighting again. He makes quick work of the hand seals and casts a jutsu at a radius that affects them both, chuckling at how Madara shivers as it washes over him, flailing a little, though Tobirama is sure he’d never admit to it.

“What the fuck was that, Senju?” he bellows, and before Madara can go on and possibly get overheard by the guests in the hall, Tobirama shuts him up with a quick kiss.

“A sobering jutsu,” he explains, satisfied at the dazed look Madara gives him once he breaks away, “which gets rid of all symptoms and traces of alcohol inebriation.” Which was fortunate, really, because without the haze in his eyes, Tobirama could see Madara much more clearly, his every feature, the tantalizing curve of his lips, the light reflecting beautifully in dark eyes. “Now. Do you still want this?”

Madara’s gaze holds both exasperation and wonder as he looks at him. “Do you?” he asks.

“More than anything.”

Madara lets out a fond sigh. Smiles. Looks at Tobirama like he can’t quite decide what to do with him, and then apparently does, pulling him in again to ravage his mouth a second time.

Tobirama’s lost count of the minutes they spend lost in each other, desire ratcheting up, rebounding against their chakras so they both sense the other’s arousal, in addition to the feel of their lengths through their clothes.

“Bed,” Madara whispers when they next break away for a long overdue breath.

“My place?” Tobirama rasps.

“ _Please._ ”

An instant, and they’re falling onto his futon, and Tobirama gives Madara a moment to gather his bearings, leaning down to mouth at his neck, sucking bruises at the soft skin there.

“Didn’t think you’d be begging so soon, Uchiha,” he says, grinning against his skin.

“Shut up, Senju,” Madara orders, flipping them over so he’s straddling Tobirama. It’s a devastating image. Clothes in disarray, his hair unfastened, falling over his shoulders and back, eyes full of promise as he rakes his hands over Tobirama’s bare chest, gently toying with his nipples, then inching lower and hooking on the hem of his hakama. Tobirama shivers. “I’ll have you begging for my cock soon enough.”

“Hm.” Tobirama leans in to steal another kiss. And another. “I won’t need much convincing.”

Madara’s hips roll against his, and Tobirama gasps at the friction, moans when Madara leans down to take one nipple into his mouth and sucks at it, tongue circling around it, teeth grazing just hard enough to make Tobirama let out a choked groan. His hands tangle in Madara’s hair, reach lower to pull away at his clothes, and a few fumbled tugs later he has Madara shirtless as well. 

He runs his hands over the hard muscles of Madara’s scarred back, yearning to explore every inch of it with his mouth. His nails dig into skin as Madara bites his nipple harshly, squeezing the other with his fingers. With his other hand, he shifts Tobirama to remove the last of his clothing, and Tobirama gasps as he’s left naked, almost embarrassed at how hard his cock is, already leaking. Almost. But Madara moans as he lifts his head and moves back to stare at his length, transfixed, like it’s the single most amazing thing in the world, and Tobirama can’t decide if it makes him feel more embarrassed, or adds to his arousal.

Maybe both.

“Well?” he asks, trying to resist the urge to squirm. “Don’t tell me you’re too slow to satisf— _ah!_ ”

His mind blanks out. Whatever thoughts had the capacity to form dissipate as Madara leans down to take the head of Tobirama’s cock into his mouth, sucking on it with a drawn-out groan that has Tobirama bucking his hips into the delicious heat before he takes ahold of himself and gasps out an apology. Madara releases his length with an obscene _pop_ and gives Tobirama an almost feral grin, reminding him of the one Madara always wears before battle.

“You can move, Tobirama,” Madara says, just a touch out of breath. Tobirama curses him for remaining so coherent. “I won’t break, you know,” he whispers, and sinks back down to suck Tobirama’s length into his mouth.

Tobirama can’t hold back his hips this time, bucking into the wet heat that sends wave after wave of pleasure through his core. His eyes shut closed. He struggles to breathe, struggles to think, his whole body trembling as his hands fist in the sheets and Madara… Madara takes him slowly at first, deeper and deeper with every bob of his head until he swallows down his entire length and stays like that, savoring it, the way his throat constricts making Tobirama see stars. Tobirama forces himself to open his eyes so he can watch Madara again. He looks devastating, mouth stretched around Tobirama’s shaft, hair pooling in waterfalls around him, every bit as stunning as Tobirama’s imagined him in his fantasies.

“Gods…”

He moans again and thrusts up gently, and Madara rides the movement, starting to move his head up and down, sucking and lapping at his cock with his tongue. It’s not long before Tobirama loses all remnants of control, squeezing his eyes shut again and thrusts, hard and fast, into Madara’s mouth, reveling in the heat and the delicious vibrations from Madara’s moans. Sweat drips down his eyes, and his skin feels hot all over, enveloped by Madara’s potent chakra twisting, winding around him like a protective cloak, making things too good, far too soon—now if only Tobirama had the capacity to form words.

He warns Madara with a hand on his shoulder as he gets too close, mumbling something he himself can’t understand, but Madara ignores him and only moves faster, takes Tobirama’s to the back of his throat once more and hums contentedly. The satisfaction echoes in his white-hot chakra, all but wringing the orgasm from Tobirama, who writhes and squirms and bucks under Madara, held down only by the hands Madara wraps around his wrists to steady him.

Madara laps up every last drop of come, never breaking eye contact even as Tobirama struggles to keep his eyes open for the display.

“Fuck,” he gasps, “fuck, _fuck_ …”

“Enjoying yourself?” Madara asks, voice rough, deeper than usual, making Tobirama’s spent cock twitch almost painfully. 

“Yeah,” Tobirama breathes. Madara moves then, burning a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses up his abs to his neck, cradling Tobirama’s head with his elbows, and Tobirama is lost once more in that onyx gaze. “In me,” is all Tobirama can manage, shifting them so that he’s on top again, clawing at Madara’s clothes—it’s scandalous, really, that he’s still covered—languid movements still uncoordinated as the aftershocks wring through him.

Madara helps him wrest his hakama undone and toss them away, and Tobirama all but drools at the sight of Madara’s— _considerable_ length, rock hard and straining, and Tobirama can’t wait to have it inside him. He wraps a hand around it at the same moment that Madara draws him in for another bruising kiss. It’s a heady thing, tasing himself on Madara’s lips, feeling him groan against his mouth. Madara’s edging on desperation soon enough as Tobirama strokes him rough and fast, finding a rhythm that gets Madara clawing at his back as he fucks into his fist.

“Wait,” Madara all but pleads, breaking away.

“Again?” Tobirama growls.

“If you want,” Madara says, shuddering at one particularly harsh stroke, “me inside. Uh, lube. Need. Lube.”

Tobirama huffs out a laugh. Maybe Madara’s not as coherent as he’d thought. 

He pushes on Madara’s chest to make him lie back on the futon and straddles his thighs, ignoring Madara’s confused frown as he runs through hand seals one handed, his other hand still wrapped around Madara’s cock. It’s amusing to watch Madara’s eyes widen in shock as colorless, viscous substance starts dripping from the tips of Tobirama’s fingers, and it’s all the more amusing to see Madara splutter as he reaches behind to shove two fingers into himself as far as his knuckles allow, because, well, impatience.

“ _You created_ a jutsu _that can produce_ lube?”

Madara looks scandalized. Tobirama only shrugs.

“Sure,” he says, stroking Madara’s cock languidly. “It’s useful.”

“Gods, Tobirama…” Madara looks up at him once more. “You’re impossible. Genius. Beautiful.” He throws his head back to moan as he bucks into Tobirama’s hand. “You have no idea how amazing you are, do you? Because you are.”

Tobirama chuckles. “Hardly amazing.” He circles his thumb around the head, making Madara gasp, just as he scissors his fingers inside himself, delighting in the stretch. “Just creative.”

“Any— _oh, fuck—_ any other sex jutsu I should know about?” He lashes out to still Tobirama’s hand on his cock with a whispered ‘too much’, his breathing harsh, muscles tense all over. 

Tobirama smirks. “Oh, I’ll show you,” he promises, “ _after_ you’re done fucking me.” It’s one of his favorite sights at this point—Madara’s eyes glazing over, mouth round with a silent _oh_. “That’s a priority.”

“Gods damn you, Tobirama,” Madara growls, and Tobirama shivers at the sound of his name spoken so roughly, adding a third finger and groans at the sound of Madara’s voice, “you’re going to drive me insane.”

Tobirama grin widens. “With pleasure,” he rasps, and, deeming himself prepared enough, doesn’t let Madara speak a single thing before he positions himself and sinks down onto Madara’s cock until he bottoms out.

There’s sharp pain, mingling with pleasure, spikes in both of their chakra as they moan together, Madara’s hands steadying his hips, his grip almost bruising. Tobirama’s fingers dig into Madara’s thighs and he breathes through the stretch, feeling _just shy_ of too full.

“Gentler,” Madara says once he regains his breath and guides Tobirama’s hips to move up, then down again _much slower_ than Tobirama wanted.

Tobirama swats Madara’s hands away, rolling his hips, relishing the delicious feel of Madara’s cock in his ass. 

“Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t break.”

“But—” Whatever Madara wanted to say trails off into a moan as Tobirama raises his hips and slams back down on Madara’s cock. “Ah, _fuck._ Tobirama…”

“ _Yes_.” 

The pain is a distant sting now, at most, disappearing completely once Tobirama adjusts the angle just so that Madara hits his prostate with every thrust. The world becomes a flurry of sensations—Madara’s hands on his face, his neck, his nipples, his _cock,_ the burn of Madara’s overheated skin and the _burningcravedesire_ of his chakra, the mind-numbing pleasure coursing through his veins as Madara thrusts up, ramming against his prostate. 

Tobirama starts getting hard again as he rides him, all but screaming as Madara wraps a hand around his cock. There’s a flash of color as he looks into Madara’s eyes, a small spark of energy, the flush blooming brighter on Madara’s face as Tobirama realizes that… 

“You can use your Sharingan,” he says, squeezing at Madara’s shoulder as he gives a particularly hard thrust, “I won’t mind.”

And then there’s the Sharingan he’d been taught to fear his whole life boring into his eyes, trailing along his body, tomoe spinning lazily as he seems to drink in the sight. Tobirama returns the favor. Madara is beyond beautiful, spread out under him, hair haloing his face, his eyes half-lidded and expression blissed out.

Because of Tobirama. Because _he_ made him feel this way.

It’s overwhelming. Too good, and there’s too much—heat, stimulation, _chakra_ weaving itself into tangles and permeating the space around them to the point Tobirama thinks he might pass out from the overwhelming force of it. Madara lifts his shoulders and drags Tobirama in to kiss him, messy, harsh and _too good_. Far too good for this to last long. Even so, Tobirama’s ever inquisitive mind wonders if he could make this better, share with Madara all the pleasure he can give. He wonders…

He gathers up his chakra into a few small tendrils and pushes them into the closest tenketsu points to his hands still clutching at Madara’s shoulders.

It turns out to be the best _wrong thing_ to do, and Tobirama distantly wonders if the silencing seals in his house are activated, because otherwise Madara’s shout would surely be heard by the whole street.

The orgasm wrings through them both at the same time, more intense than _anything_ Tobirama’s ever experienced before. His movements get sloppy and desperate, muscles growing weak from the relentless onslaught of pleasure in its purest form and for a second, he’s afraid he might pass out. Madara flips them around then and fucks into him at a more punishing pace, riding out his own release, groans getting louder with every thrust. He pins Tobirama’s hands down, rendering him nearly motionless, save for his legs wrapping weakly around Madara, his lips moving as he moans Madara’s name over and over again.

He doesn’t know whether it lasts seconds, or minutes, or hours, only that he trembles uncontrollably after the last wave subsides, and Madara flops on top of him. It’s far from comfortable, what with the _stickiness_ between them, but Tobirama is missing the mental capacity to be able to complain. They lie in silence, panting, still flinching from the echoes of _whatever that was._

Madara is the first to speak.

“I think I saw the heavens at some point there,” he says, lifting himself up to finally lie down beside Tobirama and let him _breathe_.

“Uh huh.” Tobirama’s vision is still blurry.

“You, uh.” Madara side-eyes him. “Do that often?”

Tobirama shakes his head.

“First time.” He turns to his side and meets Madara’s gaze, still Sharingan red, still mesmerizing. He offers a small smile. “Chakra usually only affects me so much but, well, you’re just as strong a sensor as I am, which is rare. And I’m not exactly this… this close to a lot of people.” 

He averts his gaze. _Close._ Stupid. Why did he say that? They may work together but they’re at each other’s throat most of the time and—

“Hm.” Madara’s hand reaches out to brush through Tobirama’s sweat-slick hair. “I’m honored.” He answers Tobirama’s smile with one of his own. “We could have been doing this _ages_ ago. What a shame.”

“Indeed,” Tobirama agrees, pushing away his more bothersome thoughts, “but we’ve got a lot of time to make up for lost opportunities.”

“Until morning?”

“Oh, definitely. And it’s still the weekend tomorrow, so, another whole day…”

“And maybe we could take a day-off—” Madara tries.

“No.”

“But—”

“Madara, _no._ ”

“I’ll suck your—”

“No!” Tobirama says through laughter as Madara crawls on top of him again and buries his head into the crook of his shoulder, his mane soft and ticklish on Tobirama’s skin. “Behave.”

Madara holds him tight and Tobirama wraps his arms around him in answer, laughing harder as Madara grumbles about stupid responsibilities distracting him from mind-blowing sex. They don’t quite drift off to sleep, but lie resting in each other’s arms, long enough for the exhilaration of it all to wind down and for Tobirama’s mind to sink down into its usual routine of questioning, and doubting, and wondering if it’ll all end once Madara has his fill of him. But,

“Tobirama?” Madara asks, face still buried in Tobirama’s neck.

“Hm?”

“This isn’t… Tell me if you’d like…” he trails off. Starts again, “If this isn’t anything serious for you, just—tell me, all right?” His voice is but a whisper by now, a bit pained, echoing the ache in Tobirama’s own heart. “Because I _want_ more, and I don’t want to get my hopes up.” 

It’s like a tight vice holding him back suddenly disappears, and Tobirama smiles, overwhelmed with happiness for what seems like the hundredth time this evening. It seems sex has mellowed down both of them; he’ll gladly bear the unexpected sweetness.

“No,” Tobirama says, feeling brave enough to admit, “I want everything you’re willing to give me.”

Tobirama feels his lover smiling against his skin.

“Likewise.”

* * *

_Mini-Epilogue_

Izuna walks to the offices with a debilitating hangover and a massive headache he hopes Hashirama will fix, it being his fault after all. Because apparently his birth _day_ had to be extended to a _couple of days_ of incessant drinking.

Not the greatest idea for people without over-the-top regenerating powers.

He should have known the universe would find a way to sink his day from bad to horrifying.

On his way, he spots his brother and Tobirama in a deserted alley on the other side of the street. His mind doesn’t understand what’s happening at first, distantly wondering _why Tobirama is eating nii-san’s face off._ But no, that doesn’t seem quite right. Once his brain catches up to what’s happening, however, his Sharingan activates from the shock before he can stop it—

And Izuna is forever stuck with the crystal-clear memory of his best friend sucking a hickey onto his brother’s neck.

He freezes. Takes a deep breath. Curses the heavens, the hells, every god he can think of _and_ the Sage of Six Paths in particular for the damnable ‘gift’ of the Sharingan.

“YOU BASTARDS,” he shrieks for all of Konoha to hear, resisting the urge to hurl a fireball at them. Preferably several. “GET A _FUCKING_ _ROOM_!”

* * *

_Omake_

**The Tale of How Tobirama Faked the Mokuton and Hashirama Almost Died From Shock**

Hashirama’s kick lands on Tobirama’s chest, and he reels from the impact right into a tree at the edge of the clearing. A tree that immediately deconstructs itself into a hundred smaller branches and claws at Tobirama before he makes a swift exit with the Hiraishin, landing on a high branch at the other side of their chosen sparring ground. Not the wisest choice, since _some_ of the trees seem to be able to _speak_ to his Anija, but Tobirama has a plan.

“Still waiting for you to give up, Otouto,” Hashirama calls playfully, scaling the ground with his eyes. Tobirama masks his chakra further, thankful that the tree he’s chosen is apparently a young one, not old enough to develop whatever capacity for speech the Mokuton provides. “With my new abilities, I’m unbeatable!”

Tobirama rolls his eyes. This _child._ He’s finally perfected his control of the Mokuton to be able to use it as fluidly as Tobirama does water and thinks he’s on top of the world.

Well.

Time to knock him down a peg (or ten).

Tobirama kneels to put a hand on the tree branch, focusing his energy on its insides, harnessing the concentrated strings of power he can feel coursing through it and—

The tree splits into six spears, all as sharp as kunai at the ends, and the wood lunges for Hashirama. He deflects it automatically, leaping away after he does, and, realizing _what_ attacked him, stops short for the split second Tobirama needs to redirect the branches to where Hashirama stands and surround his throat with the sharp points.

Hashirama’s expression is _glorious._

“Dead,” Tobirama announces, walking out onto the clearing and making the wood retreat with an inward wave of his hand.

“Wha…” Hashirama shakes his head. “Kai. Kai!”

Tobirama sighs. “Anija, this isn’t a genjutsu.”

“But—” Hashirama’s lip quivers. “You—”

“You remember what you promised me if I won?” Tobirama smiles innocently as the tree he’d used reconstructs itself behind him.

“Tobirama, WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?”

Tobirama stares, smile fixed on his face.

“How long, Otouto?!” Hashirama seems to unfreeze from his stupor and rushes towards him to… apparently inspect his hands, arms, face, _hair_ for, well, _something_. “You’ve been hiding the Mokuton _all this time_?”

“Not quite.”

“I can’t _believe it_ —”

“You don’t have to…”

“—what the hell is even happening and _why aren’t flowers and vines springing up all around you when you’re angry_?” Hashirama is practically hyperventilating at this point. “Or surprised? They used to do that all the time when mine was developing! Or do you have a special type? _Why did you tell no one about this?_ IS THIS A DREAM OR AN ALTERNATE DIMENSION?” He takes one shaky step away from Tobirama, hands trembling as his expression switches from shock to confusion to dejection so quickly Tobirama begins to worry for him. “WHAT CAN I EVEN TRUST AT THIS POINT?”

“Your head,” Tobirama deadpans, resisting another eyeroll. “Now if it had anything resembling a brain in it, you’d figure out what I did.”

“WHAT DID YOU DO?”

“ _You_ tell me when you figure it out _after_ you do what you promised.”

“But _Tobi!”_ Hashirama pouts, and Tobirama simply smacks him over the head.

“Your pout isn’t nearly good enough to sway me, Anija,” he breaks his brother’s heart, “now, let’s go. You’re building me a lab. And practicing the use of those few brain cells of yours.”

Hashirama follows him, pouting and crying and clutching his heart all the way. “I can’t trust my otouto anymore,” he attempts to manipulate Tobirama with a useless pity tactic he would _never_ fall for. “How, _how, HOW_ did you manage to do that Tobirama? And if you have the Mokuton, why can’t you build your own lab?” If Hashirama didn’t figure out that Tobirama had simply manipulated the copious amounts of water coursing through every piece of flora to _mimic_ the Mokuton, Tobirama would be seriously disappointed. “And why do you _need_ a secret lab twenty feet underground anyway, Tobirama? You have your usual one back at the compound,” he muses.

Now _that_ is something Hashirama doesn’t need to figure out; so, Tobirama may play a little with space-time or experiment with necromancy. It isn’t that big a deal. He’s always careful with his experiments—and they _always_ turn out to be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> well THAT WAS A WILD RIDE  
> (sorry, sorry, i'll see myself out now, sorry)  
> but gods, this fic freakin drained me. In the best of ways. I've rarely ever felt so inspired xD And of course, as always, special thanks to copyninken for helping me sort through this mess <3
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the read! :3
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://louiserandom.tumblr.com)


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